Dirty White
by madame.alexandra
Summary: Leia asks Han a question that makes him angrier than she's ever seen him. When Han demands an explanation, he finds out more than he bargained for. Pre-ESB, but right before establishing a base on Hoth. Rated T for implied content [Triggers: sex abuse].


_a/n: some heavier stuff this time. set before Hoth, but pretty much RIGHT before they move to Hoth._

* * *

 **Dirty White**

* * *

As far as hiding places went, Leia felt she'd found a good one. Good, in that if anyone saw her, it didn't technically look like she was hiding, it just looked like she'd stepped away from the festivities for a moment. But no one was likely to see her, because most people were at said facilities, and she'd crawled up into an open storage compartment on the ship that happened to be empty at the moment.

She leaned against the back wall for support, one knee drawn up, the other stretched out lazily in front of her. She looked up at the metallic paint of the ship and blinked, enjoying the hum of the engines, the quiet of the hallway.

Inevitably, as it went with celebration, there was only so much joy she could take before guilt struck her.

She tended to think that feelings of happiness, of carelessness, of amusement, were forbidden to her; they were all feelings her people would never have again – it felt impolite, to put it diplomatically, to be satisfied when the weight of Alderaan was always on her shoulders.

She sighed softly, pursing her lips.

Enough alcohol had been flowing now that no one would notice her absence. If they did, there would be all kinds of concern for her, and that would ruin the fun – Princess Leia, harbinger of misery and death. She smiled sourly to herself – she wished she was doing something, out on a mission. Anything but hiding from what was supposed to be a good time.

She pushed her tongue against her teeth. She should have brought a glass of wine with her.

As if by magic, a glass clunked against the storage compartment, coming to rest near her ankle. In the glass was shimmering amber whiskey, attached to the glass was a large, rough hand, and attached to the hand was a tousled smuggler.

Han Solo smiled roguishly at her; Leia gave him a moody look, her eyes flickering with admiration – it wasn't any sort of swooning schoolgirl nonsense that had her gazing at him like that, it was more of a genuine respect for – and slight consternation with– his impeccable way of always knowing exactly where she was, even _when_ she was hiding.

"Did you put a tracker on me?" she asked dryly.

He winked at her.

"Would I tell you if I did?"

Leia considered him.

"Probably," she decided finally. "You wouldn't be able to resist pointing out to everyone you did it without me noticing."

He opened his mouth to protest her analysis of his arrogance, and then paused, shrugging. He could concede that – and who could blame him? If he actually managed to lojack the Princess without her noticing, it would be quite the accomplishment – and the higher ups would probably be eternally grateful, since it would enable them to avoid being stunned when she turned up on a mission they told her not to risk her life on.

Han slid his glass closer to her, and braced his hands on the slightly raised storage shelf, attempting to swing himself up. His knees hit the side of the ship with a painful thud, and he slid back to the floor, his arms splayed near her feet. He gave her a shocked look.

She laughed at him softly.

"Hey, how'd you get up there?" he demanded, stepping back. "You're shorter than me!"

"Well, I used the footholds," she said blithely, gesturing vaguely to the siding below her. "More importantly, I wasn't drunk," she added, arching a brow.

"'M not drunk," Han muttered distractedly, jamming his feet into the nooks she'd indicated.

This time, he didn't fall. He sat on the edge of the compartment, and snatched his glass into his hand smugly, as if he'd just performed some astonishing feat. Leia tilted her head forward, studying his profile as he took a drink. He _didn't_ look drunk, she noted. Not entirely sober, perhaps, but not drunk. She'd seen him drunk. There was much more obnoxious, off-key singing involved, and he'd have already called her by one or two increasingly ridiculous nicknames.

"Why did you follow me?" Leia asked quietly.

"Didn't," he said, with a nonchalant shrug. "I saw you leave."

"And now you're here," Leia pointed out.

"If I was _following_ you, I'd have stalked you the minute you left," Han retorted. "It's been fifteen minutes."

She gave him a withering look – in some ways, Han could play word games as well as she could, and he didn't have a lick of political training.

"What would you like to call it, then?" she asked snippily.

"I came after you," he answered grandly.

Leia rested her head back, raising her eyes to the compartment roof again.

"Okay: why did you come after me?" she asked, humoring him.

He turned his head, raising his glass to her.

"You didn't come back," he said simply.

In spite of herself, she smiled up at the ceiling. Han always came looking for her. Even if it was just to find her, and deliver an annoyed report back to command that he'd located the Princess and she was fine, he always came looking. Maybe she kept disappearing because secretly, she liked it.

He leaned over and took her hand, pushing his glass of liquor into it.

"If you're going to go brood when everyone else is at a party, you got to take alcohol with you," he advised.

Grasping the glass, her hand beneath his, she lifted her head and gave him a prim look.

"Forgive me for failing to brood in the accepted intergalactic manner."

"Apology accepted," Han said seriously.

"What is this?" she asked, looking down at the whiskey. "What planet?"

"Corellia."

Leia made a face, and shuddered, but she took a drink anyway. It smelled heady; her temples buzzed, and her throat burned. She handed it back to him, and he took it, downing another mouthful himself.

"Why'd you leave?" he asked.

Leia shrugged. She didn't answer.

Once a month, the Alliance set aside a day designated for morale building. Put simply, it was one day when every single being who had a life day that month was honored, work hours were reduced, and sometime in the evening everything devolved into one big party. It was a good tactic; the rebels looked forward to it – but for her, sometimes, it was exhausting.

In her silence, he said:

"You missed Luke's imitation of the Emperor."

Leia smiled faintly, avoiding eye contact. She'd personally met the Emperor – she'd seen nothing yet that could reduce him to a thing of mockery; he was formidable, powerful – he terrified her. If it helped the others to marginalize him, she wished them all the best.

"You know," Han drawled, "most times, when people sneak away from parties, they're sneakin' away with someone."

"Ah, so that's why you came after me," Leia retorted smoothly, "to make them think I've beckoned you to a clandestine rendezvous."

He leaned towards her with a winning smirk.

"Who better than me, Your Worship?"

She drew her leg up, resting her hands on her knees.

"Chewbacca," she answered, deadpan.

Han rubbed is palm over his jaw.

"If hair's what you're into, I can quit shaving."

Leia blinked at him in disbelief, her gaze fixed on his jaw. Suddenly, she blushed, and then narrowed her eyes.

"I have enough hair for the both of us," she quipped.

He arched a brow at her, surprised he'd gotten no scathing rebuke. He lifted his brows.

"You offering to wrap me up in it?" he teased suggestively.

Her nose crinkled, pink.

"In your dreams, Captain."

She wanted to take it back the instant she said it, but she couldn't; she'd already set him up:

"You got that right, Princess, every damn night," he snorted, laughing – he was a little surprised she'd given him a chance like that himself.

Han leaned back, slouching, and reached out.

"What's this?" he asked, stretching his hand out to a button.

"Han, don't – "

He pressed it, and she lunged forward, grabbing his knees and pulling. Startled, he dropped the glass he was holding.

"Whoa!" he yelled, stunned – he barely had time to question why she was suddenly tugging at his legs, half in his lap, before he had his answer: the button he hit was for the compartment doors, and if she hadn't leapt forward and yanked at him he wouldn't have noticed his lower body about to get crushed. He twisted violently, yanking his legs in just in time for the door to slide closed. He fell back. Leia tumbled onto his chest, knocking her head against his chin. He felt his glass, on its side and empty, roll into his ankle.

Whiskey dripped off Leia's carefully – well, no longer so carefully – done up hair.

He winced, swallowing hard, preparing to be screamed at.

Leia just glared at him, sprawled on top of him so unceremoniously that only his dread of her reaction was keeping him from laughing.

"You're an idiot," she told him bluntly.

He gave her a sheepish look.

"Didn't anyone teach you not to press random buttons on ships?" she asked, looking down her nose at him.

He gave her a smirk, and put his hands on her waist.

"I don't know, it worked out pretty well for me," he said.

She swallowed, suddenly very aware of her position, very aware of his fingertips lightly pressing against her hips. There was a chance he'd done this on purpose—then again, if he had, he'd probably look more satisfied with himself. For now, he just seemed cautiously optimistic that she hadn't slapped him yet.

"Let go of me," she growled, suddenly gripped by panic.

She crawled forward, one knee digging sharply into his thigh, and stretched her arm for the button. He sucked in his breath hard as the other dug into his ribs.

"Easy on me, Your Highness," he whined.

"You tell me all the time I'm lighter than air," she retorted. "Man up."

"It's not your weight, it's your pointy bones," he griped, pushing on her knee.

He managed to push it straight out right as she slapped the button to open the compartment doors, so she fell flat on him, hiding his chest heavily. He lost his breath, and she gasped, bracing her hand at the last minute so her forehead didn't smack into his. In a purely instinctive move, he wrapped his arm around her middle so she wouldn't, in a fit of anger, roll off of him and fall to the floor.

Thus, when the doors were neatly open again, Leia was laying on top of Han in a storage compartment, reeking of spilled Corellian whiskey, as two pilots strolled by, presumably on their way back to the party.

Leia froze, hoping they didn't see them.

The pilots turned, glanced at them, and kept walking. Leia's moment of relief was thwarted when both suddenly scurried back, stared at her, and Han, for a few seconds, and then scrambled off, feet smacking loudly on the ship.

Leia slapped Han twice on the shoulder, sitting backwards.

"Who knows what they're going to tell people!" she hissed, cheeks turning bright pink.

"I've got a pretty good idea," Han said smugly.

She swatted his shoulder violently again.

"Get that look of your face!" she ordered. "This was a – if you hadn't pressed that button – you big clumsy – _nothing_ is going on – _why are you grinning like that_?" Leia hissed, digging a knee into his side viciously.

"All this protesting, and you're still straddling me, Your Worship," he pointed out.

Leia fell silent. She blushed even darker, and then hastily moved off of him, scooting away, pressing herself into a corner. She busied herself looking down at her shirt – heavy white thermal, over a light, soft white t-shirt – and brush at it, though it was hopelessly damp with alcohol.

Han sat up, brushing himself off with an annoying amount of smugness, and straightened his vest. He scooted over towards her, casually stretching his arm out across her shoulders, and peered down at her attire.

"Good thing you've got all that white on under your…white," he snorted. "Why do you wear so much white, anyway?"

She shook his arm off her roughly.

"It's tradition," she muttered.

"Who says?"

" _Alderaanian_ tradition," she snapped, raising her eyes.

He went silent. He watched her go back to messing with the shirt, and glanced behind him at the empty glass, rolling around with a peculiar, repetitive noise.

"You never get to wear anything but white?" he asked, interest piqued.

She held her thermal away from her t-shirt, hoping it wouldn't soak through the heavy material – wet clothes were so uncomfortable. Han watched her, waiting, and she grit her teeth, finally choosing to answer – why, she didn't know.

"White from the ages of thirteen to," she flushed suddenly. She swallowed; she didn't know how to put it. Maybe if he'd get the point if she just said _marriage_. "Until marriage."

Han looked puzzled about that one. Leia, frustrated, pulled off her thermal without thinking too much about it. The t-shirt underneath was still somewhat dry, and it was thick material, not see through. She dumped her shirt into Han's lap, and he picked it up gingerly.

Without a word, he hopped down.

Leia looked up, suddenly inexplicably worried he was leaving – she'd wanted to be alone, away from people; now she didn't want him to leave.

"Where are you going?" she asked, an edge to her voice.

"To get another glass of whiskey so spill on you," he said, nodding at her remaining shirt.

She jutted her foot out and kicked him in the bicep. He grinned, rubbing the spot. Folding up her thermal, he rested his arms on it, leaning up on the compartment shelf next to her. His head lingered near her thigh, and she picked imaginary threads off of her white thermal trousers.

"Those white dresses look better on you," he said, his voice low. "Shame we left the warmer base."

She looked at him through her lashes.

"Gives me somethin' to look forward to on the next one."

"Don't get your hopes up, flyboy," Leia said quietly. "Our next permanent base is likely to be Hoth."

A look of distaste crossed Han's face.

"Hoth? After _months_ on Orto Plutonia?" he groused. "Why do they keep picking these freezing ice planets?"

"Maybe they think the cold will short circuit Vader," Leia offered dryly.

Han lifted his brows at her.

"You made a joke."

"I'm a very funny person," Leia retorted.

Han grinned, lopsided. His hand moved, he touched her knee, his hand running down over her shin.

"Is _everything_ you wear white?"

"Enough, Han," she said, drawing her legs up.

He brought his hand back to himself, looked up into her cool brown eyes. He winked at her.

"Just teasing," he said huskily. "What happens if you don't wear white one day?" he asked. "Does the world end?"

He said it, and then immediately a pained look crossed his face; his brow creased, his eyes widened – he looked like he'd been clobbered over the head with something; he looked nauseas. The strange thing was, until he got that look on his face, she hadn't associated the phrase with Alderaan; it was his fear of her interpretation that triggered her.

"Leia," he said, his voice strangled. "I didn't mean to – "

"I know," she said tiredly. She looked down at herself, loose t-shirt, thick woolen pants – all white, but a dirty white, dirty from work, from effort, from the straights of the rebellion. _Dirty_ white was how she felt; sullied – stained. "I don't know why I still wear it. The traditions don't matter anymore." She didn't say it out loud, but really, she didn't know why she continued to wear the white when the white represented a trait specific to young women that she didn't - really have, anymore.

Her tone was defeatist; he shook his head.

"Yes, they do," he said softly.

He meant it, and her lips turned up a little at him. He cast his eyes over her again.

"Until marriage, huh?" he asked. He whistled. "I'd be wearing white forever. On Corellia, brides only wear white on their wedding day."

"The rule wouldn't apply to you," Leia corrected sharply. "It's for women; aristocratic women," she said. "They – we're—usually married young." She hesitated a moment. "If not, some of them, ah, don't wear the white anymore – ah, anyway."

Han blinked at her with a blank look on his face.

"Why?" he asked.

She gave him a look.

Then –

"Oh," he said, arching his brows. "It's an _innocence_ thing," he noted.

"You should be given an award for making the word innocence sound that vulgar," Leia told him flatly.

He gave a little arrogant bow of his head, taking it as a compliment.

"Kriff," he swore, almost to himself. He leaned towards her, giving her that devilishly handsome grin she'd come to look forward to. "You ever want to wear something besides white, Princess, you come to me," he advised flirtatiously. "I'll take care of _that_ for you."

Nettled, suddenly, she turned her head away, set her jaw. Her cheeks didn't flush, but her brow creased, and she felt something twist in her gut – Han was such a comfort sometimes, such an easy person to be around, but his – his endless courtship, whatever it was – courtship was the only polite term she knew for _hot romantic pursuit_ – spun her head, sometimes in a good way, sometimes in a way – that made her a little afraid of him.

"Leia?" he asked, a touch of hesitancy to his voice. "I didn't mean to make fun of your traditions," he said warily.

She turned to look at him, meeting his eyes intently.

"Have you ever considered just taking what you want?" she asked suddenly.

Her words were _searing_ , hot like a brand, angry and cautious all at once, and taken aback, he stood staring at her, caught off guard, confused. What the hell was she talking about?

"I hear them whisper," she went on, her expression fraught with an eerie blank darkness. "Taking bets on us, on whether we'll go to bed," she said – her language was proper, formal; he narrowed his eyes. "Don't you want to _win_?" she goaded. "If all you want is - passion - why don't you just take it?"

It took him a moment to realize what she was implying.

"What," he said, having trouble talking at all. "You mean – force you?" he asked, in low tone of disbelief.

She didn't say anything, but there was a coldness on her face suddenly, a resigned mask – resilience, or scar tissue, something like that. He felt sick for a moment, and then anger reared its head; his jaw took on a hard line, and he stepped back, his knuckles white as he gripped her discarded thermal shirt in his hands.

"You think I'd do something like that to you?" he asked harshly, his volume elevating. He let out a harsh breath, his shoulders tensing. "What kind of guy do you think I am, Leia?" he barked – she flinched a little; she could tell she'd made him really angry, really gotten under his skin.

This was a different kind of anger than usually arose from their bickering; under that heated wrath in his eyes, he looked wounded, genuinely hurt. She felt incredibly small, sitting above him, but a part of her felt relieved he'd reacted like this.

"If that's what you think of me – " he started loudly.

He broke off, turning away. He ran a hand angrily through his hair, his back towards her. She expected him to storm off, return to the party, fuel the rumors those two pilots must have started. He didn't, he turned around, and glared at her stonily.

"I don't know what gave you that impression," he growled thickly, "but I'd never lay a hand on you – on any woman," he added, enunciating with strong emotion, "without permission."

He made a sharp motion with his hand, as if to reinforce his statement, and she stared at him with a pale face, and parted lips. She was sorry she'd said it; she was sorry she hurt his feelings – and she knew, she _knew,_ deep down, Han would never hurt her, but some part of her needed him to know –

"Why'd you say something like that?" Han demanded. "You really think I'd force myself on you?" he repeated heavily.

Staring at him, she finally shook her head.

"It's not you, Han," she said in a brittle tone. "It's – " she faltered. "No one has ever asked me before," she said finally, her voice cutting off sharply. "They just _took_."

Han put his hands on his hips, and then let them slide down, rubbing his palms on his trousers. He turned away a moment, running his palm over his mouth – he didn't want to think about what the hell she meant by that. He didn't have to _think_ – he wasn't stupid enough to think female prisoners escaped Stormtroopers unscathed; he'd known some before he got kicked out of the Academy – but someone of her status, her lineage – he wouldn't have thought –

He spun back around, and came towards her quietly, the angry stiffness in him replaced with a different kind of stiffness, a different kind of anger – not directed at her. His movements were hesitant as he lifted his hands, and rested them lightly near her legs again, his body pressed against the wall. He frowned uncomfortably, not sure what to say. His mouth felt dry; he felt sick again.

"Look, Leia," he started.

"I'm sorry I said it, Han," she interrupted immediately, her voice cracking.

"No, listen," he broke in curtly, gritting his teeth. He ran his hand back through her hair. He thought about it for a minute. He couldn't come up with anything poignant to say. "I'm just _flirtin'_ with you," he blurted out. "I'm not going to sneak up on you one night and –

" _Stop_ ," she insisted, throwing up her hand earnestly. "I know that," she said shakily, catching his eye earnestly.

He looked at her, exasperated.

"Then why did you accuse me – "

"It wasn't an accusation, Han!" she said hoarsely.

"It sounded like one."

She looked away.

"Okay," she said, taking a deep breath. "Okay; it was to provoke you," she admitted slowly – she understood, when she thought about it, that on some level she'd said it to get a rise out of him, to test him. "I want to know that you don't think of me as a disposable object," she said flatly.

He blinked at her slowly, feeling horrible – he felt chastised, and guilty; she always bantered with him with such sharp awareness and wittiness, he'd never asked himself if he was bothering her – harassing her.

"I don't," he said roughly. He narrowed his eyes. "You can't think about yourself like that just because a couple of people treated you – "

She looked at him heavily.

"When I think about it, I think about what my life would have been if it never happened. If they never touched me. If I'd stayed safely on Alderaan, or in the Senate."

He closed his mouth, listening.

"You know what I realized?" she asked.

He waited.

"It would have turned out the same."

Han pulled back slightly, shaking his head.

"You think if you hadn't been held prisoner, you'd still - ?"

"I'd have been married off," Leia said simply. "Given to someone as part of a political merger. I'd be expected to perform. Provide an heir. I couldn't have shrugged off royal responsibility," she went on. Her eyes were very calm when she said: "It would have been a different kind of rape."

Han swallowed slowly, mesmerized by her face – the slight glitter of tears in her eyelashes, the pale in flush to her cheeks, the way her lips just slightly trembled. She looked haunted, but at the same time, she looked like she was scarily in control of her emotions.

He rested his chin on his hands, thinking about it.

"It's not really the same thing," he said huskily.

"It's how I cope," she retorted flatly.

It was, to an extent; her time with the Alliance – wholly, fully _immersed_ in the Alliance, as a rebel, not as a Senator-with-an-undercover-side-job – had made her realize what a product she had been, when she was a Princess, a pawn on the political chessboard. It didn't matter that her father had educated her well, taught her to protect herself, listened to her wishes when it came to possible betrothals; first and foremost, she was expected to use her body to cement treaties.

Something about her abuse on the Death Star, the way they had used her, put that in stark perspective, and consequently, something about Han chasing her, always getting frustrated when she rebuffed him, storming off, whining about her to Chewie – she heard he did that – made her feel not threatened, but wanted.

Not wanted for a chew toy, or a prize, but for who she was, as a whole.

Han lifted his hand, and rested it on hers, cupping his fingers around hers and squeezing. He looked up at her and didn't say anything. He seemed to think it over for a moment, and then a smirk touched his lips.

"So, it's not my flirting that's getting me nowhere," he started, "it's _how_ I'm flirting."

"Do you think of anything but seducing me?" she fired back faintly.

He smiled, but it wasn't quite so confident and cocky as usual. He considered her a moment.

"Do you want me to seduce you?" he asked suddenly.

Her cheeks turned bright red, and she nearly choked.

"Do I – _what_?" she gasped, her voice squeaking.

"You said no one ever asked you before," he said quietly. He arched a brow. "I'm _asking_."

Leia's face seemed to melt, into something soft – confused, uncertain, worried. She swallowed – she couldn't explain how she felt about Han; he was infuriating and full of himself and – but he was still here, for some reason, bumming around the Rebellion, and everyone – everyone, even Mon Mothma, in soft, disapproving sniffs – said it was for _her_.

She looked at him helplessly; she'd just been trying to escape a party, not have a deeply philosophical conversation about what she wanted in life – with him, no less!

Nervous, she started laughing. He arched an eyebrow at her, giving her a wounded look; she glanced away.

"Han," she managed.

He just looked at her expectantly, waiting with an almost tangible anticipation. It was as if he wanted her to admit interest, wanted her to give him some sign he wasn't acting like an idiot –

Maybe they were all right. Maybe he was staying around for her, and she was putting him through hell - - but her only experience with intimacy was brutal, and Han wasn't a sure thing; he could be gone tomorrow.

Instead of saying anything else to her, he lifted his arms, and beckoned, offering to help her down. She hesitated, and then reached out for him, grabbing his hands, and hopping forward. He caught her, and set her on her feet in front of him. His hands rested lightly on her shoulders – incredibly gently, for someone so much taller and more muscular than her.

She never felt a panic in her chest when he was around; she never felt the shaky pricks of fear she sometimes got around men who were too close – never around him.

"It wouldn't be like you think," he said his voice low. "It's not supposed to," he paused, swallowed hard. "Hurt."

Suddenly, without a word, she put her arms around him. She pressed her face into his chest, and breathed him in, and she stood there, with utter faith that he wouldn't hurt her, ever – not on purpose, and not even accidentally, if he could help it.

"Han?" she asked, mumbling.

He grunted.

"No one knows about this."

He swallowed hard, resting his hand on her back.

"You mean other than the medical – "

"No one, Han," she emphasized, her voice hard.

She didn't look up at him for a long time. He didn't know how he felt about that kind of responsibility. He slipped his fingers under the collar of her t-shirt, pressing his fingertips into her neck. He pulled her closer, in what he hoped was a comforting hug.

"I don't know how to handle this, Leia," he confessed, desperate. His voice was strange, uncertain – no patented Solo-confidence.

She did something startling; she laughed. She tilted her head back and looked at him, eyes dry with hollow acceptance.

"I don't either," she said pointedly, as if that were obvious. "It's killing me."

He gave her a look like he didn't understand her, didn't get why she'd tell him something sovpersonal, even bring this up or mention it to him. He moved his hand off her neck, and gestured to himself.

"You trust me?" he asked gruffly.

"Yes. You don't treat me like a Princess."

"Never thought I'd get points for that," he remarked dryly.

She corrected herself.

"You don't treat me like I'm breakable."

"Breakable?" he quoted, brow furrowing. "You?"

She liked the way he said that; as if it was utterly impossible for her to be anything but a real person, a strong person, capable of handling anything. She didn't blame the high council of the Alliance per se; some had known her as a pampered child, some knew the extent of damage torture had done to her and feared for her sanity – but she wanted her life back, she wanted autonomy.

Han, more often than not, treated her like she could hold her own.

It could be - that she'd been wrong, in discounting his – courtship, again, for lack of a better word – as nothing more than a casual past time for him while he made a quick credit smuggling for their little operation.

In the silence, she heard footsteps. She turned her head; it was another pilot. He caught her eye, startled. Then he gave her a wolfish grin, glanced at Solo, and whistled. Han whipped around. The pilot took off, no doubt to add his story to the rest –

 _Leia and Han on top of each other, covered in whiskey! Leia and Han were hugging!_

Leia leaned back, overwhelmed suddenly. Evasively, she turned her head.

"I think I'll go to bed," she said. She plucked at her shirt. "Change into something less alcohol drenched," she murmured.

Han nodded. He stepped back, hands at his sides. She expected a joke about him taking her to bed. He said nothing of the sort. He reached past her, and she slipped under his arm, deciding to start towards her quarters on the vast rebel ship – she needed to think, about what she'd told him, about the things he said, about the way he made her feel – he got agitated around her; now, she no longer thought it was an ego issue; she wondered if it was emotional, if he was getting nervous about her lack of response.

She hoped he understood now – it wasn't really him.

She wanted to be alone, but she wasn't sorry he had come looking for her.

Han was gathering up her discarded thermal, and the empty glass he had abandoned.

"That mission on Ord Mantell," Leia said, in a small voice. "I'm going to go with you."

Han nodded, looking into the bottom of the glass. He handed her shirt to her, pushed is hand through his hair, and looked at her intently.

"Leia," he said guardedly, his face almost unreadable. "If you want me around, you know," he paused, and swallowed. "You just have to ask."

He rubbed the back of his neck a little uncertainly and then, in a burst of confidence he scrounged up somewhere, he gave her a smirk, and a dashing wink, tipped the empty glass at her, and was off – leaving her standing there, holding a white shirt stained with Corellian whiskey and wondering if that was an exact metaphor for the future that lay ahead of her.

* * *

 _this actually didn't turn out how i planned, but things rarely do. maybe it could plausibly lead in to why Han is so desperate, in ESB, for Leia to admit she wants him around._

 _feedback really appreciated !_

 _alexandra  
_ _story #175_


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